Paper Dolls
by rubie
Summary: Allen oneshot, based on his thoughts before he met Balgus. He clings to his past of pain and hatred, and refuses to follow a new path... warning: dark. Controversial themes.... bad parenting...


Inspired by Dragonslayer-san's comment on Paper Dream... how she had a dream that  
paper people came alive. Arigatou! ^_^ after a couple days of twisting the idea, the result  
was a bit far fetched... humm... *sigh...  
  
warning: dark.... Not half as bad as Joshua Tree though. More like on the Dying is Easy  
level, only this promotes living. *more warnings:* umm.. I kinda address a highly  
controversial religious topic.. Its not that bad, it refers to "gods" rather than "God.".. but  
don't read this if you can be offended.  
  
ties up with Dying is Easy and Fall Up.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply.  
  
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Paper Dolls  
by Rubie aka Jenn  
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The sky doesn't deserve such a dull name.  
  
It's suppose to be beautiful, a vast expansion of space with no limits. It's the roof of the  
world, looming silently over everyone's everyday lives. But "sky" seems so dull, almost  
harsh, the way the sound echoes in your mouth. It reminds me of those villagers, their  
lives dull and worthless, yet they firmly believe in their importance.  
  
And they dance in the living room of my family estate as if they own it. They stroke the  
artwork of my family collection and lounge in the chairs that are not theirs. So I turn away  
from them. I look through the almost invisible glass to the withering gardens, and watch  
the crude sky. The red camellias are tilted precariously in the soil, their petals like dying  
skin. The winds are cruel; they tug at the flowers ruthlessly, pushing them, pulling them,  
then finally crushing them with their silky hands. But everything laughs at me. They taunt  
me. They sneer at me.  
  
'Foolish boy,' the people whisper in unison with the dancing lights. 'You should forgive.  
You should discard your skin and take on another. You should run free in a new field, and  
breathe the elutriated air.'  
  
And those words constantly echo in my mind, like the waves of the unsteady seas. The  
people around me mimic those words over and over like the lyrics of a song. They make  
it sound so simple. They describe pain and hatred like a delicate sheet of ivory colored  
paper, easily shredded by the raging wind. But pain isn't like paper. Hatred isn't easily  
shredded by time. Those people fail to realize the anger within me. How could they give  
me advice? How dare they give me advice? They see me as a little boy in desperate need  
of guidance. They see me as a helpless child who is afraid of dark. Afraid of being alone.  
Afraid and trapped. They don't understand. They don't even know. Yet they view my  
emotions as something flimsy and shallow; something that must be discarded for their  
ideas of virtue and happiness.  
  
Damn them.  
  
I hate them.  
  
I hate them all!  
  
How could they know? I could they understand? They never saw. They never felt. They  
never raged. And I've lost everything. *Everything.  
  
And when you've lost as I have, you can only relive those times of the past.  
  
And mine are always hatred.  
  
Not that no one has given me anything more memorable. Its because those rare moments  
of happiness are always fleeting and insubstantial. They leave people a stinging feeling  
behind, one that of bitterness and desire. So in a way, happiness brings pain. But pain...  
pain lingers and grinds into the memories forever.  
  
Rather unfair.. isn't it?  
  
I fail to recall one single incident when life was ever fair. When I feel happy, sadness is  
never far behind. And when I am sad, then the gods are obviously laughing at me;  
laughing at my stupidity; laughing at my stubbornness; laughing at my constant attempts  
to justify myself.  
  
They gave me a self-indulged father.  
  
They gave me a damned passive mother.  
  
And the one gift that had perfection, they instantly snatched away again.  
  
Unfair... is it not?  
  
The gods hate me. They must hate me for playing such games with me. I'd rather if they  
find me boring, and discarded me like the other dolls. But when I tell the villagers about  
my thoughts, they only became angry.  
  
'Stupid boy,' they said. 'The gods are our protectors. They guide us through hardships  
and offer us happiness.'  
  
'What about sadness?' I asked.  
  
'Sadness is only a sign of your discontent. Gods can only give happiness,' they said.  
  
Pathetic. So they are dolls. They are dolls with strings attached, who resolutely believe  
that they are walking on land when in reality, they are burning. Burning in their  
ignorance; burning in their unwillingness to accept anything but their own beliefs;  
burning so hotly that they turn from whoever carries water, to disillusion their hopes.  
  
Yes... place your hopes on someone who plays games. Place your hopes on someone who  
takes joy in giving pain.  
  
And even if gods truly wanted for people to be happy, then why didn't they create us as  
equals, sharing this joy and pain? Sounds rather unfair to me. And how have they guided,  
if all I did was stumble into pits? But of course I said nothing.  
  
'Gods lead us. You should open your heart and listen,' they said.  
  
Yes, but gods always tell you what you want to hear.  
  
And I fail to see when the heart grew ears.  
  
Besides, the only people who hear the gods are the ones who already have happiness.  
  
Don't they realize that those are the people gods ignore?  
  
Their lives are too flawless to be led. Only my life... my life has been filled with too many  
grievances to be accidental.  
  
Gods never offer happiness. And when they do, it is to leave a lingering pain. They only  
give us happiness to force us to live, and play with us longer.  
  
And those who are happy believe that they are loved. They hope to satisfy their petty  
materialistic desires because gods love them. But you know what? Those people don't  
love the gods. They want to be gods. They want that power, that control, that sense of  
omnipotence that can overwhelm all others.   
  
Was that what my father wanted? To be a god himself?  
  
That very thought brings a bitter smile to my lips. That is a foolish desire. The lust for  
power and control can never be justified by anything. And even if he did succeed, he'll  
never have any worshippers. I for one, would never worship him. I worship only myself,  
because I am the only one whom I could ever trust and rely one.   
  
And gods are worthless without people who worship them.  
  
But what an awful god he'll make. I'm glad he died. I hope his body is never found. I  
hope that the vultures peck at his eyes, and the rats gnaw at his bones. I hope his body  
rots, and the grass grow between his ribs, and the rains pelt his limbs.  
  
He's your father, a distant part of my mind echoes. And sons are suppose to love their  
fathers.  
  
No... most sons love their mothers because of the understanding. The fathers... well... they  
are foreboding shadows. They represent idols in sons' minds; tall, powerful, strong.  
Everything that they'll one day hope to become. But my father... my father is the slime  
that I hope to always evade.  
  
I will be kind to my children.  
  
I will love my family.  
  
I will stay with my wife always.  
  
Not like you, father. I'll never be like you.  
  
I'll be a better father than you'll ever hope to be.  
  
And that is so easy, it makes me want to laugh.  
  
The sun is beginning to set. Somehow, I find it strangely fitting. The sun will take away  
my grievances and bring new ones at the day's dawn. It will take away my frustrations  
only to fling it back at be the moment I open my eyes to greet the new day. I scowl at the  
dying orb, but it only replies with a splash of pastels across the azure skies. The  
ocean-like expanse glows with fire. The gardens flutter and come alive with the day's  
passing. Birds sing their final farewell and scarlet petals tear in the wind.  
  
Yes.. shred those red petals.  
  
Shred them as you are doing with my father's body.  
  
And yet... however many times I kill him in my mind, I want to see him. Maybe to finally  
gain the courage to scream at him? Perhaps.  
  
I was never brave enough. I whisper it when I'm alone. Yet I dread anyone hearing me.  
  
'I hate you, Father. You left us. You left me.'  
  
I still remember that night. Almost two years have passed since, but I remember it as  
yesterday. I remember my mother, her golden hair carefully bound on her head, her eyes  
shinning with unshed tears. I remember her wearing that favorite silk dress of hers, the  
one Celena accidentally spilled milk on, and cried for hours from guilt. But the stain was  
gone. I don't remember seeing it on her dress that night.  
  
My mother was in the living room of the estate, and you, my father had your back to me. I  
don't think you knew I was there. I was also too afraid... so I hid behind the large chair  
close to the door.  
  
I remember observing you, Father, very carefully. You wore that large brown coat that  
was almost as tall as me. You refused to meet her glare, but your hands held the traveling  
bag with resolve. Even as she screamed at you, you did not flatter.  
  
'You cannot!' she had cried. Her eyes were frantic and her hands were clasped, trying to  
restrain the frustration that was boiling within her.  
  
But you refused to acknowledge her. You continued to stare at our languid mattings, cold  
and distant. Mother became angry then. No.. she was furious. She was furious for your  
obvious uncaring for her. For us. For your children. Her desperate pleadings turned into  
accusations. Then insults. And pretty soon, she slapped you.  
  
Then you grew angry as well. And you reacted.  
  
And after that, the dimly lit room was a blur. The tapestries hanging from the walls  
seemed to distort and grow arms. And they reached across the room and stroked her. They  
danced with her, or rather, forced her to follow their steps. Their thick hands were rough  
to her delicate skin, and her dress was ripped where one was particularly cruel. They  
curled around her frail frame and pulled her into an embrace, then pushed her away, and  
pulled her back again. She seemed to know the dance well. She dodged and cried very  
little. Only occasionally did she stumble to the floor. Sometimes, she tried to flee, but  
those unearthly arms would only clasp her again. Her face was clouded behind in her  
disheveled hair, streaked with a ruby hue.  
  
So I hid. But I could feel the sickness in the room.  
  
This fear.  
  
Anger.  
  
Frustration.  
  
Pain.  
  
Then the door slammed shut, and I never saw you again.  
  
That night, I remembered hearing Mother crying as she vomited in the bathroom. I didn't  
go to comfort her. I was too frightened; frightened that she'll be angry and hate me;  
frightened that I might shame her and cause more pain; pain for turning an repulsive piece  
of her life into the open. I should have gone to her.  
  
I was a coward.  
  
I was a coward.  
  
I was a coward.  
  
And I still am.  
  
But even as I howl and shriek in my mind, I fear the room fill with voices that are not my  
own. The passing lights paint streaks of violet across the living room, heedless of those  
repulsive villagers. They dance in unison with those voices, bringing life where there was  
not.  
  
Voices.  
  
Screams.  
  
Cries.  
  
Perhaps those tapestries are only dancing in my mind. Perhaps they are weaving for me,  
those designs that I created. Weaving the times of pain and hatred, and memories I  
desperately try to forget.  
  
No... I never tried to forget them.  
  
I only tried to relive the past, in hope that perhaps, just perhaps I could have done  
something to change things. I forced myself through visions of repugnance because I  
thought that if I wished hard enough, maybe something will change. I wanted to take  
those paper dolls in my own hands, and force them to do the dance that I created. I wished  
them to follow my play.  
  
For my father to stay.  
  
For my mother to smile.  
  
For my sister to laugh.  
  
But I don't want to forget. I want those memories to be fresh in my mind, so I could  
scream and rage at them. Because no matter how painful pain can be, I still want it. It  
defines me. It gives me life. It helps me stay on this path. It makes me cling to this reality.  
And pain is the only thing that I still own.  
  
Do you want me to let go of this, Father? Do you want me to tell you, that I accept you?  
Do you want me to speak those words? Those worthless words that are like paper in the  
wind?  
  
I'll never forgive you, my father.  
  
Because forgiveness is a rare and unique quality that only the weak possess.  
  
And even if I was weak enough to grant you forgiveness, they would only be words.  
Words without truth or heart, because in reality, to forgive is to forget.  
  
And grievances are never forgotten.  
  
  
End  
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humm... I'm not sure how exactly Allen might have thought... but this is before he meets  
Balgus, when he's really cyincal... I doubt he really forgave anyone for their wrongs to  
him... humm.... I was thinking that Allen is the kind of person (before he met Balgus) to  
cling to the past and feed off it like a leech. If he really didn't have anything, he'll  
probably just commit suicide or something.. but he had some sort of rage. That's why he  
chose to continue living, even if he had a death wish. He does have a lot of hatred  
though... it kinda showed in eps. 26.   
  
*sigh... I don't like this fic, I donnuo why. I guess I really wasn't comfortable addressing  
such a religious theme, that 'gods' were used as a metaphor. humm... urgggg.... the  
story's confusing... *sigh... but I didn't want to make it very obvious either.. humm... if  
your confused please tell me and I'll try to rewrite it. Gomennasi!  
  
The first 2 lines are actually taken from my Clover oneshot... Gilded Sky... it'll probably   
never be finished. humm... had writers block in the beginning.. so I took a shortcut... ^_^;;  
  
2 more oneshots to go. I'm trying to do one for everyone in the Escaflowne cast, except  
for the females. For some reason, I can't put myself in their shoes. Well.... one for  
Dornkirk and one for Chid... maybe another one for Folken.. Folken is really fun to write  
for. ^_^ hummmm...  



End file.
